


This Town Is Colder Now {I think it's sick of us}

by Fake_Brit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Stiles, Post-Canon, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fake_Brit/pseuds/Fake_Brit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post canon]<br/>Stiles realizes it's time to get out of Beacon Hills and asks Derek to pick him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Town Is Colder Now {I think it's sick of us}

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing a Clintasha multichapter fic and I'd hit the lost inspiration point, and this is my first attempt at writing again, and also I MISS DEREK .   
> Title from Stop And Stare by One Republic.  
> It's my first Sterek in the English Fandom so, hope you enjoy :)

Beacon Hills has never been this cold.

Truth to be told, – every Californian person will back that statement, if asked through TV or simply by a tourist that marvels at the persistence of, as they sigh tiredly, _such hellish heat_ – it has never been cold in the worldwide-known, non illness-related four letter term.

At least until Scott still had asthma, he mumbles to himself, regretful to a fault. And then, anger and bitterness mingle in his throat, taking his breath away.

Some days, he wishes he’d never gone past those days and that he’d still spend his days rambling, his words crashing into one another, fast and sarcasm-dripping, his eyes shining of nostalgia for a mother he only has flashy memories of.

The city looks like it has gotten permanently chillier and darker and quieter, almost as though every supernatural crisis had left its own different mark on this place.

He understands Derek, now – his habit of escaping, both far away geographically speaking and within himself, coming out only when his rage mounted and mounted, in synch with the moon and its song, wild like a tsunami.

He doesn’t remember who said it for the first time, honestly. Thinking back makes him ache and cracks echo in his ears, – _crack crack crack_. Rhythmic and all – but the sentence pulses as the echoes and the breaking inside of him intensifies with each step, _you’re the heart, Stiles. And if you crumble, there will be no one left standing._

Too bad nobody tried to keep me going in the end, his feet imprinting themselves on the pavement, sadness and loss shaping each footprint into the map leading him away from this part of his life.

He gets into the car, closes the door quietly.

Derek gives him the shadow of a smile, comprehension shaping his gentle expression.

“You ready to leave all this mess behind?” voice low, extremely soothing. Unusual, but welcome.

“You betcha, Sour Wolf,” same tone, only a little bit more hopeful – which is still a detached, dark voice if compared to the old Stiles – “Can’t wait to talk your ears off,”

Derek grins fully this time, turning the key and waking the engine of his beloved Camaro.

 

 

 


End file.
